


The Nameless One

by grey_gazania



Series: This Girl Is Taking Bets [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 616/MCU mashup, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Gen, Genderswap, genderswap aLL THE THINGS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:43:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8129149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey_gazania/pseuds/grey_gazania
Summary: An ongoing series of ficlets documenting the events between Bucky's fall from the train in 1945 and her first mission as the Winter Soldier in 1954.





	1. Chapter 1

** [The Alps, 1945] **

There is a cliff.

There is a ravine.

At the bottom of the cliff, in the ravine, there is a woman.

She lies unmoving, a dark shape sprawled across the ground like a broken marionette. The snow around her is stained with blotches of red, particularly beneath her head and on the left side of her body, where a bloody, mangled stump is all that remains of her arm. Her eyes are half-closed. Her lips are blue. Her skin is mottled grey. But she isn't dead.

She's lain bleeding in the snow for three days, but she isn't dead.

Flakes are being buffeted through the air. They stick when they land on her, coating her hair, her eyelashes, and her clothes in a rime of ice. All she can hear is the howling of the wind as it rushes over her. It drowns out the crunch of snow under heavy boots, so she doesn't realize that she’s no longer alone until a man steps into view.

He's tall and slim, in a thick coat and a fur hat. He bends over her and fishes around inside her jacket until he finds her dog tags. He reads them, nods, and lets them fall back onto her chest with a faint clink. Then he rests his fingers against the side of her neck.

« _Ona mertva_ ,» he says after a moment, shaking his head.

She doesn't know who he's speaking to. She doesn't understand the words.

She feels a pair of hands slide under her head and take hold of the back of her jacket collar. At the same time, the man bending over her grabs her by the ankles. Together, the two of them lift her into the air and begin to carry her away from the cliff. Her arms drag along the ground, the left one leaving behind a dark streak of blood in the once-pristine snow.

The men carry her for a long time. Gusts of wind cut through her like a knife as they go. Her blood and bones have turned to ice and she is so, so cold.

Soon, darkness claims her.

  


* * *

  


Ilia let out a grunt as he and Pavel heaved the corpse into the back of their truck. Then the pair of them clambered into the cab. The engine protested when Ilia turned the key, but eventually it rumbled to life. Beside him, Pavel sat blowing on his hands and rubbing them together in an attempt to warm them.

"Will the doctor be upset, do you think?" he asked.

Ilia shrugged. " _Find Jane Barnes_ is all he told Captain Bessonov. He didn't say he thought she was alive. Besides, you saw the size of that cliff. No one could survive a fall like that."

"True enough," Pavel agreed. He dug around in his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, passing one to Ilia before lighting his own. The cab soon filled with the smell of tobacco, and the pair of them passed the rest of the drive in companionable silence.

Captain Bessonov was waiting for them when they arrive back at the search party's camp.

"We found her," Ilia reported, before the captain could ask. He led the captain around to the back of the truck and pulled aside the canvas flap, revealing the body lying within.

"Well done," the captain said, clapping Ilia on the shoulder. With Pavel's help, they pulled the body out of the truck and laid it on the ground.

"Bury it in the snow for now, to keep it frozen," the captain ordered. "The team with the preservation capsule should arrive in the next two or three days." He smiled proudly at his men. "The doctor," he said, "will be very pleased."

  


* * *

  


** [From the notes of Dr. Arnim Zola, 1951] **

_I have at last been freed from the constant supervision of Stark and Carter, and I have been permitted to travel to West Berlin for a meeting with other scientists of note._

_Knowing that I would be here and, moreover, that I would be granted time to myself, I arranged for a certain package to be transported to a secret laboratory. I had been eager to examine the body ever since I learned that it had been found and preserved; as it belonged to the only subject to survive my attempts at recreating Erskine’s formula fully intact, I believed that study and dissection would yield much useful information._

_Imagine my surprise when, during my initial examination, I detected a very faint heartbeat. Against all odds, the subject was still alive! She appears to have entered a period of deep hibernation, which I suspect may have been brought on by the extreme hypothermia she experienced after her fall._

_Preliminary tests indicate that she has retained her physical reflexes, although I am not yet certain what the state of her mind may be. Regardless, this discovery will change many of my plans._

  



	2. Chapter 2

**[Russia, 1952]**

She doesn’t know her name or her age or anything about herself. All she knows is that she is alive only by the grace of the moon-faced German doctor who comes to examine her periodically. She doesn’t know how often, exactly. It’s always dark here, and her food seems to come at irregular intervals. She’s lost all cues that might give her any sense of the passage of time. 

She thinks she must be from America, because that’s what the guards call her – _amerikánka_ , “the American.” It was one of the first Russian words she learned. 

_Amerikánka. Zatknis. Nyet._

The guards don’t say those last two much anymore. They have no reason to; she stopped talking a long time ago. 

The little doctor, though. He wants her to talk, sometimes. He asks her questions, does things to her and asks her how she feels. She can’t always answer. Her throat is choked with rust and cobwebs, and sometimes the words get stuck and all that comes out is stale, dead air. 

Today he doesn’t ask her any questions. He simply gives her an injection and then sends her back to her cell. Once the door has slammed behind her and the guard has bolted it, she retreats to the pallet in the corner and curls up with her back to the wall and her arm wrapped around her knees. 

The cell is cold and dark and bare. It holds her makeshift bed, a toilet that only sometimes works, and a cracked and mildewed sink. 

She sits in silence for a long, long time. Gradually, she notices that the sink is running. She doesn’t remember turning it on, but she doesn’t remember a lot of things. She can smell… something. A tangy, metallic scent. Pushing to her feet, she shoves her hair out of her face and walks across the room. 

When she gets there, she sees that the sink is overflowing, spilling a thick, dark liquid onto the floor. She tests it with one finger. It’s hot and sticky, and as she breathes in again, she realizes what it is. 

It’s blood. 

She lets out a ragged scream and stumbles backwards until she crashes into the opposite wall. Still screaming, she sinks to the floor. 

The guard’s footsteps echo down the corridor, but it isn’t the guard who comes into view. The thing that appears looks human, almost, except the limbs are stretched like taffy, too long for the body, and when it opens its mouth she sees that it has far too many teeth. 

" _Zatknis_!” the thing barks, slapping the bars, but she keeps screaming, pausing only to draw in panicked breaths. It hits the bars again, harder, but when she doesn’t obey, it storms off. 

She feels something wet and warm against her back, and she pulls away from the wall with another shriek. It’s blood, more blood, streaming down the bare concrete and pooling on the floor, running in little rivers that soon reach the puddle under the sink. The sink is bleeding and the walls are bleeding and the floor is covered in blood and there’s a monster outside and she can’t escape, she can’t escape— 

There are more footsteps now, and she keeps screaming because she knows the monster must be coming back. The blood has reached her waist now. Soon she’s going to drown in it. 

When the thing steps back into view, she sees that it isn’t alone. There’s a wax man beside it, a poor copy of the doctor, and it’s holding a syringe. The monster unlocks the door, and she scrambles away again until she slips in the blood and tumbles to the floor. 

The wax doctor is approaching her slowly, and the screams die in her throat at the sight of its cold marble eyes. “ _Ach, Soldatchen,_ ” it says, laying a smooth hand on her cheek. “ _Ich habe dich zu sehr gegeben, ja? Still halten._ ” 

She obeys only because she’s too frightened to move. As it slides the needle into her arm, the only noise in the cell is her own harsh breathing. She doesn’t know what the wax doctor is giving her, but soon its round face grows blurry. The whole room is blurry, and the wax doctor is shepherding her towards the pallet in the corner. 

She collapses onto it and curls up. Her eyelids are heavy. The room is growing dim. Soon, she slips sideways out of her own head and falls into silent darkness.  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**[Russia, 1952]**

It’s the pain that wakes her – sharp, cramping pain just below her belly, like someone has fisted their hands in her innards and _twisted_. She draws in a ragged breath, and as she moves she discovers that her inner thighs are slick. An investigative finger comes back smeared with red, and she pushes herself upright with a surge of panic and a pained grimace.

When she looks down, she sees that the pallet beneath her is dark and wet with blood. She’s bled before, she knows, but never like this.

She wants to call out, to plead with the guards to bring the little doctor, but she doesn’t know which of the men are here right now. The one with the red beard beats her whenever she angers him, and this will surely anger him. But even he doesn’t frighten her the way the one with the mole beneath his left eye does. That guard hurts her in other ways, ways that leave few marks.

She doesn’t want either of them to come, so instead she stumbles to the corner of the cell and curls up with her back to the wall as another glob of blood passes from her body. A particularly vicious stab of pain forces a whimper out of her, and she lifts her wrist to her mouth and bites down, determined to muffle the sound.

She has no way of telling how much time passes before one of the guards walks past. She’s lucky; it’s the one with the soft eyes who sometimes brings her hot water for bathing.

“ _ **Soldat**_?” he says. When she doesn’t answer, he flicks on his flashlight and shines it into the cell, first on her pinched face and then on her surroundings. The beam of light lands on the blood-soaked pallet, and his jaw drops. “ _ **Bozhe moi**_ ,” he breathes.  


“ ** _Krovotecheniye_** ,” she manages to whisper. _Bleeding_.

“ _ **Podozhdite**_ ,” he tells her, as though she has any options besides waiting. Then he rushes off, leaving her alone in the partial darkness.  


When he returns, the little doctor is with him. The doctor peers at her through his round glasses, his face grave, and then gestures for the guard to unlock the door. She doesn’t put up a fight as she’s hauled to her feet, though she lets out another pained whimper.

They bring her to the doctor’s medical laboratory, all glass and bright steel, and once the guard has retreated, the doctor helps her strip her bloody clothes from her shaking body. She clambers onto the examining table and lies down with her legs spread, shivering as her skin touches the chilly metal.

The doctor examines her in silence, probing with his tools. But his touch is unusually light, and when he finally speaks, it’s to ask her an unexpected question.

“ _ **Soldatchen**_ ,” he says, walking around to the side of the examining table and looking down at her face. “ _ **Wer hat dir das angetan?**_ ”  


_Who did this to you?_

It takes three tries, but she manages to force out the truth. “ ** _Ich weiß nicht_**.”

He shakes his head, clicking his tongue, but he doesn’t punish her for her failure to answer. Instead, he helps her sit up and offers her a clean, open-backed hospital gown. She dresses with shaking fingers and follows him into the smaller room where he sometimes places her when she’s been good, the one with the blankets and the pillow.

At his command, she lies down, and the oilcloth beneath the sheets crackles as she shifts her weight. Once she’s settled, he produces a syringe. She holds out her arm obediently, not wincing as the needle enters her vein. Her eyelids quickly grow heavy, and the pain fades to a dull ache.

Arnim Zola watches as she drifts into a light slumber. _A hysterectomy_ , he thinks, _to ensure this doesn’t happen again. And I believe a review of the security footage is in order. My soldier is no one’s toy._

  



	4. Chapter 4

**[Russia, 1952]**

She hasn’t seen the little German doctor in a long time. Exactly how long, she can’t say; time has no meaning in this place. But she knows it’s been a long time, a very long time, since she’s seen anyone but the guards and the doctor’s aged assistant.

The guards feed her, and sometimes they escort the assistant to her cell so the old man can give her a shot – to keep her healthy, he says, but she thinks he’s lying. She tried keeping track of how many times he came, drawing tally marks in her own blood on the floor under her pallet, but she’s given up. The number seems to fluctuate at random, more marks one day and fewer the next.

More and more often, she’s finding that she can’t rely on her own senses.

Today she’s huddled next to the door, as close to the light as she can get, because she can see the shadows breathing in the back of her cell. The leaking toilet is whispering, too, and she can’t cover her ears, not with only one arm, so instead she begins to smack her palm against the cell bars. The dull ringing that results is enough to drown the whispers out.

It’s also enough to draw the attention of the guard. It’s the one with the red beard and the hot temper, and he hits the door with his fist and snaps, “ _ **Zatknis**_!”

In a fit of defiance, she glares up at him and deliberately keeps going. She knows that she’s provoking him and that she doesn’t have a chance of fighting him off, but she doesn’t feel like rolling over and showing her belly, not this time.

It’s important to resist. She doesn’t know why; she just knows that it’s important. She may forget, sometimes – she forgets a lot of things – but the idea always eventually returns.

_Stand up. Fight back._

The guard lays his gun to the floor on the opposite side of the corridor, pulls out his keys, and unlocks the door. He shoves it roughly open, trapping her against the wall behind it until he’s fully inside, and then hauls her up and throws her across the room.

She can’t check her fall, and she feels the skin on her cheekbone tear as she hits the concrete. But that’s okay; she’s survived worse. Pushing herself to her feet, she retreats to the far corner of the cell.

He follows, advancing with menace in his steps, until he has her backed up against the wall. She shrinks back as he looms over her, because that’s what he expects. Then, when he reaches out to grab her again, she takes advantage of his complacence and lashes out, clocking him hard across the jaw.

He wasn’t expecting that.

He stumbles back with a grunt, raising one hand to his face, and–  


                       –slips in the puddle by the toilet,

                                     cracking his head against the sink as he falls.

He doesn’t get up. She stares, wide-eyed and silent as she waits for him to stand, but _he doesn’t get up_. He doesn’t get up, and no one comes running to see what’s going on. The other guards have all grown bored of watching him beat her.  


It dawns on her that the door is still open, and the guard’s gun is on the floor outside. She could take it. She could walk out and pick it up, and no one will stop her. And once she she has it…

Once she has it, maybe she can escape.

She wipes at the blood on her face with the back of her wrist, waits for a few more moments, and then walks to the door, taking the guard’s flashlight with her as she goes. She opens the door as silently as she can and then creeps across the corridor and picks up the gun, slipping it into the back of her underwear. She’s barefoot, dressed in nothing else but a thin and dirty shift that falls to her knees, but now she has a weapon. Now she isn’t helpless.

She knows the layout of the area. Her cell is at one end of the corridor, backed up against the wall. There are other cells between hers and the double doors at the other end of the corridor, but they all stand empty.

The place, she suddenly realizes, is a firetrap. And she knows how to start a fire with a flashlight. She doesn’t have one weapon; she has _two_. She just needs something to burn.

She flicks the flashlight on, shining it into the cells around her. Corruption is rampant among the guards, and she knows that they sometimes stash black market goods down here. In the cell closest to the doors, she strikes gold. Three crates are stacked inside, and when she sets the flashlight down and pries one open she finds it full of bottles. Bracing one against the stump of her left arm, she pulls the lid off and sniffs. It’s alcohol, _strong_ alcohol, and she smiles to herself, a sharp, nasty smile. Then she sets to work.

Soon the corridor floor, the floors of the cells, and the unconscious guard are all drenched. She snaps a long strip of wood from one of the crates, positions herself behind one of the corridor doors, and fumbles with the pieces of the flashlight until she’s managed to ignite her makeshift torch.

“ ** _Pomogite_**!” she yells. _Help!_

The other guard rushes in. He doesn’t see her, standing hidden behind the open door, so she’s easily able to set the back of his shirt alight. Then she drops the flaming splinter, shoves the guard to the alcohol-soaked ground, and dashes through the doors.

She can hear the guard screaming, but she doesn’t pause as she snaps the padlock shut behind her. He can burn. They both can burn.

  


* * *

  


She’s four floors up and out of bullets by the time the other guards corner her, but she manages to take down two more of them bare-handed before they subdue her. They’re talking to each other too rapidly for her to follow; her Russian isn’t that good yet.

Eventually the sea of uniforms around her parts to reveal an unfamiliar woman, blonde and apple-cheeked. The woman approaches slowly, and when she speaks it’s in soft, slightly-accented English.

“Come, **_soldat_** ,” she says, holding out an empty hand. “My name is Roza. I know you must be scared. These men have been very cruel to you. But I am here to help you.”

The person who was once Bucky Barnes knows that at this point, surrounded as she is, further rebellion will only lead to death. And she is still naïve enough to trust kindness. She drops the gun, takes Roza’s hand, and allows herself to be led away.

  



	5. Chapter 5

**[Russia, 1952]**

You follow Roza, because you don’t know what else to do. You know that if you keep fighting you’ll be killed, and you don’t want to die. You would rather live here than die trying to escape. Accepting Roza’s help is your only choice right now.

She leads you back to the lower levels of the facility, but not all the way down to your old cell. The place she brings you to is newer, cleaner, with white tiles and polished metal. It reminds you of the doctor’s laboratory.

“Come,” she says, beckoning you to one particular door. She pushes it open, and you see a bathroom, a real bathroom, one that’s free of mildew and that holds a _shower_.

“Clean up,” Roza says, brisk but not unkind. “You are filthy, _**soldat**_. There is soap and a towel inside, and I will have clean clothes waiting when you finish.”  


Clean up? That’s one order that you’re more than willing to obey.

Inside the bathroom, you strip off your dirty clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and step into the shower. The water is hot. Unexpectedly, that simple fact makes you break down. You don’t understand the sudden tightness in your chest, but you sink to the floor beneath the shower head, trembling and muffling your sobs as you watch the water swirl down the drain.

It’s brown with blood and filth, so once you catch your breath you push yourself to your feet and grab the soap. By the time you finish washing, your skin is pink and raw, and the water runs clear when you rinse your hair.

You don’t know how long it’s been since the last time you were this clean.  


You wrap the towel around yourself and poke your head out into the hallway. Roza is standing there with an armful of fabric, which she passes to you. Investigating, you find clean underwear, another shift-like shirt and, wonder of wonders, an actual pair of pants.

Still barefoot but now fully clothed, you follow Roza into a different room. This one reminds you even more strongly of the doctor’s lab. There’s a low examining table, a cabinet built into the wall, and a sink. At Roza’s command, you take a seat on the table. She approaches you from behind with a comb and begins to work several months’ worth of snarls from your hair.

“The doctor will not be back for some time,” Roza says. “He is attending to other matters. I will be responsible for you until he returns.”

You nod silently to show that you understand. You want to speak but, as is often the case lately, the words won’t come.

Roza doesn’t seem to notice. “Putting Vadim in charge of you was a poor decision,” she says. “After what happened last month, the doctor began investigating. He was planning to move you soon. I do not think he expected you to try to set us all on fire.” Her voice is very dry, but she doesn’t seem inclined to punish you for what you’ve done.

“What…” The word comes out soft and thin, and you clear your throat and try again. “What happened last month?”

“One of the men hurt you rather badly,” Roza says. “Do you not remember?”

You shake your head mutely.

Roza makes a noncommittal noise and continues combing. “What were you trying to accomplish today, **_soldat_**?” she asks.

“I can’t stay here,” you say, your eyes fixed on the floor. “I can’t– I need to leave.”

“You need to leave,” Roza repeats. “I see. And where will you go?”

The question brings you up short. Where _will_ you go?

“Home,” you finally say.

“And where is that?”

“…I don’t remember,” you admit quietly. You gather up your courage and ask, “Do you know?”

“I do not,” Roza says. “None of us do. We know very little about you, **_soldat_**. Our men found you half-frozen on the field after a battle, left to die. You wore an American uniform, but no tags. You spent a very long time unconscious in one of our hospitals. When you woke, you could tell us nothing about yourself.“

You didn’t know that. You didn’t know any of that. “But I’m American,” you say, your voice small. “Couldn’t the other Americans have taken me home?”

Roza clicks her tongue, and you can tell by the way her hands move against your hair that she’s shaking her head. “We tried, **_soldat_** ,” she says. “Our people contacted the American government, but they refused to accept responsibility for you. They believed you would be a burden, because your mind is damaged and you are crippled.”

“Oh.” You suddenly feel small and hollow and very alone.

Roza rests a gentle hand on your shoulder. “The doctor disagrees with their assessment,” she tells you. “He believes that the Americans were wrong to abandon you. He persuaded the Party Leaders to give you a chance to heal.”

A sudden wave of panic swells up in your stomach. If you’re here only by the goodwill of these Party Leaders, then they can cast you out if you displease them.

Roza seems to sense your distress. “They are pleased with your progress thus far,” she reassures you. “You are strong and resourceful, and the doctor’s treatments are working; your mind _is_ healing.”

You don’t answer, fixing your eyes back on the floor instead. It doesn’t feel like your mind is healing. You still can’t remember anything about who you are. Your memories are unreliable. You forget things easily. You lose track of time. You see and hear things that aren’t there. Often you try to speak and find that all the words you know have fallen out of your head.

No, it doesn’t feel like your mind is healing at all.

Roza combs out one final snarl and then begins to pull your hair into a plait, braiding with deft fingers. “I think we will perhaps not tell the Party Leaders everything that happened today. You lashed out because you were being mistreated by a corrupt guard. That is all they need to know.”

You relax slightly, relieved at her words. But something is troubling you.

“Why am I in a prison and not a hospital?” you ask quietly.

“You are dangerous, _**soldat**_. When you first woke, you often grew violent when you were distressed. You are still somewhat unstable. We are keeping you here until you have more control over yourself, to ensure that you harm as few people as possible.”  


She finishes off the braid and offers you a hand to help you stand. “Let me take you to your new cell,” she says. “You have had a trying day. I will call Comrade Grigory to give you something to help you rest.”

You nod and take Roza’s hand. She’s been very honest with you. You think that maybe you can trust her.

  



End file.
